In the final of Britain’s Got Talent(ITV) two singers called Richard and Adam were heroically battling their limitations and the rising dry ice fumes when suddenly a woman appeared between them and started throwing eggs in the direction of Simon Cowell.

Many of us who have longed to do the same would have been pleased to see the albumen-charged grenades strike home, but all we saw was Simon taking his jacket off, no doubt prior to its being cooked as a tortilla. At Roland Garros the next day, in the middle of the semi-final between David Ferrer and Rafael Nadal, there was a demonstration high up in the stands. Once again it wasn’t dangerous, but once again we didn’t see the details. It’s a pity to miss out on the pictures, now that so many displays of anger are lethal: the fun version should surely be rewarded with the publicity it seeks.

I, for one, as I grow old and frail, am more and more drawn towards any demonstration of youthful vigour. Thus it is that I am able to put up with the sight of Martin Hughes-Games on Springwatch Unsprung (BBC Two) when so many other viewers want to have him fully concealed with shrubbery at all times. I like what they hate: his hairstyle. You, if you wish, may hate his waistcoat and his relentless, overemphasized exuberance: perhaps his inflated personality is the product of sucking on the nozzle of his screaming hairdryer. But to hate that hairstyle is to hate life.

In the days of the first Mel Gibson Lethal Weapon movies, back before the invention of the mobile telephone, a gigantic, puffed up, teased out hairstyle used to be called “big hair”. Martin Hughes-Whatsit has big hair as a way of making us forget what the programme he fronts no longer has: Kate Humble. It still has Chris Packham, but even he is now being shunted aside by the inexorably encroaching hairstyle of his new co-presenter.

One of Chris’s problems is that there are things he doesn’t feel comfortable doing. Being a man of dignity, he is not fitted to conduct some pitifully dumb quiz, whereas Martin is ready to conduct it at the top of his bogusly excited voice while bouncing up and down on a trampoline with a feather duster sticking out of his behind, as long as the camera gets plenty of good shots of his furiously posturing face. Meanwhile, elsewhere in the world, our beloved Kate Humble is being lowered into a volcano, or doing some other damned thing which has nothing to do with her true métier: doting on loveable animals.

It could be said that the arrangement on top of Martin Hughes-Thingo’s head is a loveable animal in itself, but that term applies better to what happens on top ofMelvyn Bragg. As part of the Beeb’s never-ending Tudor season, Lord Bragg was on air campaigning for the importance of William Tyndale, billed as The Most Dangerous Man in Tudor England.

Melvyn (let us call him that, for he remains the most marvellous of all marvellous boys) was on tremendous form, covering all the scholarly points about the Bible while striding through various parts of London. Most remarkable, he didn’t only stride with a straight back, his fabulous hair was as thick and sumptuously arranged as ever. Melv Gibson! If, like me, you were lying there barely capable of reaching for your mug of hot chocolate, it was a bittersweet spectacle.

To be a true fan of Parks and Recreation (BBC Four), you have to listen hard. Then you won’t miss such a great line as this: “There are two kinds of diabetes but only one kind of caring.” Most of the great lines come from set speeches by Leslie, played by Amy Poehler. She addresses a thinly attended town meeting, or a camera on the night shift of some doomed telethon. She talks uplift. I thought nothing could be funnier but then I saw Veep, which runs on Sky Atlantic.

If you haven’t got Sky, you can now buy the Veep boxed set. As the title suggests, the action revolves around the US Vice President, played by Julia Louis-Dreyfus. The dialogue and action are so scurrilous that you would swear that the show was the brain-child of Armando Iannucci, who gave us The Thick of It here in Britain. Then you find out that Iannucci is indeed in charge of Veep. He has infiltrated America. And with the aid of HBO he has scored a hit.

Clearly Iannucci has the secret of drawing upon the American system of writing in a team, and turning it to the advantage of his vision. Even the most minor character has a lot to do and the cumulative effect is continuously funny. There is always the magic extra phrase that doubles the laugh. “Glasses make me look weak,” the Veep complains. “A wheelchair for the eyes.”

The second instalment of The Iraq War (BBC Two) continued to strive for a neutral view. “It seemed that most Iraqis welcomed the Americans.” It did indeed seem so: a fact which should not be forgotten. But it was clear that the Americans screwed up what came next, after their victory. It might have been clearer still if we had seen more of the bizarre Donald Rumsfeld, but he got only a single mention. There was no mention at all of the many thousands of Iraqis who died hideously in Abu Graibh prison when Saddam was in charge of it. That notorious hellhole was presented as if it had been an American idea.

In keeping with its status as a Brian Lapping production, the series is impeccably done, with all the right footage. What’s missing is verbal nuance. There should have been room, for example, to say that there was a good case for following Saddam home to Baghdad after he was defeated in Kuwait. The man who persuaded George Bush Sr not to do so was Colin Powell: who was in the show, but somehow never raised that particular topic. It was one of the several points where you longed for a narrative voice whose owner you could see. Those faceless voice-overs sound authoritative only when you know nothing about the subject.

Never in the annals of cheesecake-driven espionage has there been a pair of Russian spies as charming as the ones in The Americans(ITV). They have survived the absurdities of the first episode and are now fighting for their lives. It isn’t Homeland, but neither, last time, was Homeland.